


Scioglimento

by Artemiss



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Alpha Hannibal, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Diverges from Primavera, Fictional Architecture, I don't know what I'm doing, Italy, M/M, Omega Will Graham, Oops, Someone Help Will Graham, probably Dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemiss/pseuds/Artemiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place at the end of Primavera. Will scents Hannibal for the first time in two months and promptly goes into heat. What follows is a high-octane romp through the dark underworld of Palermo as the two sides of the Janus coin come together at last.</p><p>“Do you believe in God, Will? It seems he believes in you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> God, forgive me for this fuckery. I am unclean.

I

 

            “I forgive you.”

            Will whispers it, lets it out into the silence. He can almost feel the buzzing, the aura of Hannibal. It pulses in the empty space of the catacombs, the air between the pillars and skulls and the walls and the darkness. “I forgive you,” he whispers once more.

            There is nothing in return. There is only silence. But somehow, Will knows. He knows that Hannibal is here.

            He waits.

            And then he feels it, feels it hit him. Like a wall of pheromones and scent. He tips his head back, and it meets flesh, meets a clothed shoulder.

            “Hello Will.”

            It’s at this point that Will must acknowledge what has been creeping in the corners of his mind, running, spattering blood on the walls like a wounded thing. This need, this absence that he’s felt deep inside of him. Because leaning his head back into that scent, that presence, unleashes a feeling so strong in his core that it makes his knees go weak.

            Relief.

            He feels relief at Hannibal’s presence.

            This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was never supposed to happen. Jack taught him how to hunt. Jack was guiding him, holding him back from the cliff’s edge. He was supposed to get close, but not too close. He was supposed to make Hannibal need him, not the other way around.

            Because Will needs him now. Can feel it creeping through him. Hannibal brings his hands to Will’s arms, gripping them gently, holding him still. And just like that, Will feels one small pulse of slick slip out of him and down the back of his thigh.

            He starts to shake. But the good doctor doesn’t seem to mind. Slowly, Hannibal turns him around. The dark of the walls gives way to the red of Hannibal’s shirt.

            “You came for me.”

            The rumble of that voice sends a thrill up Will’s spine. His head is bobbing gently, and the vision of Hannibal’s chest in front of him blurs. He can’t look up. Can’t do it.

            “I— I—”

            Hannibal grips his arms gently, the gesture chaste and yet, somehow, unquestionably possessing. “You came for me here, Will. Tell me, what made you do it?”

            “No, I— I . . .” It’s become abundantly clear that Will did not think this through. He’s searching the palace of his mind, trying to find the way to the light. What was he going to do when he came here? What was he supposed to do next? Unhappily he’s realizing that it's all a blur, that it had been blurry even before he felt the truth of Hannibal invading the fantasy. That two-month sojourn across the Atlantic? It was just _need_ wearing vengeance’s trousers.

            “What were you to do when you found me, Will?”

            “Nghh—” It’s a strange noise, barely human. “Y-you— You left me . . . your heart.”

            Will can hear the smile in his voice. “That I did.”

            “But you— You can’t— You can’t take . . .” Will can’t even say it out loud. He tries and he tries and he whines, a high, anguished sound, and looks up into Hannibal’s eyes.

            They’re shining, deep red in the light of the candles. Hannibal’s mouth parts, just enough to show teeth through the curve of a gentle upturn of his lips. He looks like a predator. 

            He looks like Will’s predator. 

            Will drops his eyes down, lets his vision blur. It’s happening. Will feels it building: heat in his belly, tremors in his hands, cold sweat on his face. He knows this feeling, knows it even as he knows that it shouldn’t be happening. He’s going into heat. He’s going into heat because of Hannibal.

            And Hannibal knows it too, by the look of him. Hannibal takes his right hand, brings it up until his index finger meets Will’s chin. Then he gently lifts Will’s face until he’s got no choice but to meet Hannibal’s eyes once more. And it’s too much. Just like that, another pulse of slick leaks out.

            Will knows what this means. He knows it even as he resists it. Omegapam prevents heats and scents for unmated omegas.

            It doesn’t work on mated ones.

            Which must be this feeling, this feeling of loss inside him. This pull that he’s felt from deep within his chest, pulling him to Sicilian shores. _Alpha,_ he recognizes, _my alpha._

            Suddenly Hannibal acts. He pulls them close, presses their bodies together. And if Will wasn’t smelling of the doctor before, he certainly is now. There’s no mistaking the scent he’s pumping out in buckets. Mating pheromones. The ones that say _I-choose-you-and-only-you-now-take-me-take-me-take-me,_ and that emblazon the sky with want in vibrant, neon colors.

            “Will,” he says, “I have always been respectful of your heat. I may have hurt you, but never in that way.”

            “You— You must have—”

            “So you must know that I have not done this to you. This—” and here he pauses, “a gift as miraculous as this can only be interpreted—” and here he smiles, “as a sign.”

            “No,” says Will, shaking his head in confusion as much in rejection. There’s so much darkness everywhere, and he can’t find the light. He can only find the warmth, the warmth of Hannibal’s heart, beating in his chest.

            Hannibal cocks his head, like he’s done so many times before, posing a question that Will knows he already has the answer to. 

            “Do you believe in God, Will? It seems he believes in you.”

            Will’s head is a kaleidoscope of desire. It refracts the light, breaks up Hannibal’s face into pieces and reassembles them again.

            “He has given you a chance. He has set you free.”

            Free? This is freedom? Will shakes his head, letting it fall forward, resting his forehead against his alpha’s chest. Christ, _his alpha’s_.

            “Will? The time is now. You must come with me.” Hannibal takes a full stride away, out into the darkness. The warmth goes with him. And then he extends a hand.

            Will takes it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait. Please enjoy this next chapter featuring dub-con and fictional botany.

II

 

            Before Will has time to piece together what he’s done, they’re fleeing through the darkness together. Hannibal pulls him by the hand, ducking left and right. Will stumbles after him, trying to keep up. His legs are quivering with his weight; they shouldn’t have to hold him up anymore, not as his heat hits in the presence of his alpha. But he knows they cannot stop here; it’s not safe here. His vision cuts between color and blackness. He needs Hannibal.

            There’s flashes of shadow, then flashes of light. They run down a winding path of stairs, Will nearly tripping and taking Hannibal down with him. The air is thick with permanent damp; the walls are wet with condensation. Dirty water flows by in a channel to the left.

            They’ve made it to the sewers. 

            Then Hannibal stops all of a sudden, and Will reels, putting his head between his knees. It’s too much, it’s all too much. The sharp, dank smells of the watery walls are clashing with the scent of _mate_ that lingers in the air all around him. His head’s so fuzzy he can barely think, even though he _knows_ he has to try.

            “Heat: a curious feature of our biology.”

            Will looks up from his crouch to see Hannibal, implacable as ever, brushing dust of his sleeves while he pontificates. The omega wants to laugh and cry at once. He settles for trying to catch his breath.

            “The last ditch effort of a body to keep what it knows belongs to it.”

             _Uh oh._ Hannibal starts pacing towards him.

            Will’s body fills with twin feelings: fear and revulsion, desire and longing. They’re cleaving together, cutting him apart. He wipes the drool from his face.

            Then Hannibal’s wiping it away for him, touching his cheeks, sweeping his thumbs over the corners of Will’s mouth. Slowly, the omega feels himself being pulled up to standing, feels his head being tilted back until his eyes are meeting Hannibal’s again.

            “Do you wish to keep me, Will?”

            The smell of heat floods his senses, and his knees go weak. _Yes,_ the omega part of him croons, _I want to keep you so, so badly._

            Then something inside him wrenches control away from the piece of him that’s preening under the weight of Hannibal’s gaze and shakes his whole body loose from the alpha’s hold. He pushes the alpha away, putting a yard’s distance between them.

            “No, _no._ You’re not— you’re my _friend.”_

            Hannibal halts in place, uncharacteristically hesitant. His expression has gone so soft that it almost looks like _hope._ He just stares _,_ throat moving as if swallowing something hard.

            Will shakes his head, shielding himself with his hand from the strength of that gaze. _“No_. Stop it. That’s not what I _meant._ Stop— stop _looking_ at me like that!”

            Hannibal purses his lips, frowning. “I apologize. I cannot help what is my natural reaction to your acknowledging our friendship.”

            Will guffaws, throwing his head back, bearing his teeth. “Oh— oh yes you can. Don’t you— don’t you use that as an excuse.”

            Hannibal’s frown deepens, but he maintains a respectful distance. _Downstream, thank God._ Will for his part stares at the floor, counting his breaths, willing the room to stop spinning. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s groping towards a feeling, a problem to be solved. If only he could remember . . . .

            It all seems so ridiculously unfair. Hannibal had been the one alpha he could trust, the only one who had never made him feel like prey. He had welcomed the warm steady feeling of the doctor in his life, a luxury made feasible by the man’s impeccable manners and self-restraint. It was almost remarkable, how relying on him had never once felt like a prelude to sex.

            Then Will had uncovered the truth, that Hannibal was a monster.

            And he had spent the next three months, soon as he was out of prison, making the monster believe he was his friend.

            But even throughout the entirety of that friendship, there’d never been even a flare of heat between them. Sure, Hannibal got a bit touchy sometimes, but so did all alphas, and the doctor had always restrained his touches to Will’s hands or, he supposed, to his face when tending injuries.

            Until he pulled Will into his arms and stabbed him in the gut.

            “What do you propose we do?”

            Hannibal’s voice cuts through the fog and suddenly he remembers: _oh yes,_ you’re _here. What do I do with you?_ And with that question comes the heat again. He wobbles on his feet, resisting the pull of his body towards the alpha just a few feet away.

            “Your pupils are already dilated, and you are responding to my scent, even though you wish to disguise that response from me. At this point a heat is inevitable.”

            “I— I know that!” Will snaps.

            Hannibal visibly stiffens from the tone of Will’s voice, but rolls his shoulder, turning on his heel and surveying the space about them. His eyes fall towards the only natural light, which comes from a hole at the top of the righthand wall. There in the space below is an outgrowth of green plants, one of which seems to draw his attention.

            “Soleirolia sublevandis,” says Hannibal, bending slightly to pluck a stem from the plant growing in the shaft of light and lifting it up for him to see. “Widow’s-gift. Used by Italian monks for centuries to stave off symptoms of heat.”

            He steps towards Will, offers him the stem. It’s covered all along its length in small round leaves. “Here,” he says, “pluck the leaves, chew, but don’t swallow. Get as much juice from them as you can.”

            Will takes it, pointedly ignoring the spark that occurs when their fingers brush together. He shakes his head, pinching the stem in his hand. “ _Don’t_ want you,” he mutters under his breath. But he does as Hannibal asks, plucking the leaves from the stem and chewing them.

            The relief is minor, but instant. His whole body feels cooler, and he wipes his brow and sighs. He can stand up straight now, taking in his surroundings more fully, the only two exit points: one behind him, and one in front of him, just past where Hannibal is standing.

            “I’m afraid I must press my question, Will: what do you propose we do?”

            Will doesn’t respond, so Hannibal continues. “There is an apartment where we can go, or a hotel if you prefer. But wherever we go, we must go soon. I estimate we have no more than an hour’s time before your heat arrives fully, and past that point you will lose self-control.”

            Will grits his teeth. The problem is that, to his heat-addled brain, the argument Hannibal laid out sounds frighteningly logical. What other option does he have? He doubts he can truly overpower Hannibal, and the other man is certainly faster than him, knows the terrain better. And the closer he gets to his heat, the more he feels his resolve to escape slipping away from him.

            And the worst part is that, even after everything they’ve been through, Will _does_ want Hannibal. He wants him more than ever.

            “Will.”

            “Shut up. I’ll— I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You’re going to take me to the surface and— and I’m going to scream for help and they’ll take me to the hospital. And you- you are going to run and hope that la polizia find you before Jack does.”

            Hannibal gives him a look: slightly affronted, head pulled back. It’s so subtle, and it’s gone in a flash, but Will saw it all the same. “If that is what you wish.”

            “It is.”

            “Alright,” he says, “We must go now.” He takes a step forward. “Take my hand.”

            Will backs away two steps, holding his hands in the air. “I’d rather not.”

            Hannibal sighs, a silent thing, but he turns his back on Will, walking towards the exit. “Very well,” he says, “follow me.”

            And Will considers it, the easy capitulation on Hannibal’s part. He knows it’s a lie. The man wouldn’t be Hannibal if he wasn’t lying. And he is Hannibal, smells like him, there’s no doubt. But Will can’t run from him, knows he can’t, knows he isn’t fast enough. So he goes, follows in Hannibal’s footsteps.

            “Good,” Hannibal says, turning back to glance at Will following obediently, his head to the ground.

            And Will follows obediently, his chin tucked into his chest. He plays his hand: submissive, soft, and pliant. He knows what Hannibal wants: him, mated, pregnant, marked and owned. And Will has no intention of letting that happen. None whatsoever.

            No, he came here to forgive Hannibal, not to give himself over to him. He brushes his hand lightly over his right-hand pocket, where he keeps a hunting knife. Adrenalin courses through his blood and he grimaces; there’s still some fight left in him yet. 


	3. Chapter 3

III

 

            Hannibal is walking towards the archway; that’s when Will strikes. He whips the knife from his pocket and runs up from behind, shoving Hannibal against the stone edge of the arch with all his might. Hannibal reacts quickly, managing to turn himself to face his assailant. But in a wild-eyed instinctual gesture to hurt, Will lurches forward with the knife and suddenly, he’s got the blade held up to Hannibal’s throat.

             _Got you_ , he thinks to himself in triumph.

            Hannibal slowly lets his arms drop to his sides. His eyes have gone blank, the same way they did when Will held a gun up to his head in Hannibal’s kitchen: carefully, studiously blank. Will wants to see him flinch, wants see fear in those eyes, but he also wants to run like Hell for the hills and never look back. His body is equal parts fight and flight right now, and he doesn’t know what to do.

            “Quiet, for a hostage-taker,” Hannibal says, almost chuckling. And that makes it so much worse; he’s still enjoying himself.

            “I’m trying to decide if I should kill you, or just maim you,” Will says, sneering and trying to inject some ice into his voice. Trying to pull back his empathy, which is threatening to overtake him for _daring_ to hold a knife up to his— to _this_ alpha’s throat. Trying to reign it in so he can do what he needs to do: pull the knife through Hannibal’s trachea.

            “How quickly feelings change,” the alpha says, shifting his shoulders, which makes Will stutter forward, holding the knife higher.

            “Fuck you,” he growls out. “You made them change.” Hannibal doesn’t say anything to that, just looks at Will with his heavy, maroon eyes. “It’s you who made it have to be this way.”

            “Maybe so,” Hannibal admits, even if Will isn’t sure what he’s admitting to anymore. “But I can’t say I’m sorry for it.”

            Will cocks his head, laughs, bitterness seeping out of him. “I don’t expect you to apologize,” he says. He’s so far beyond expecting an apology.

            “But you want one.”

            Will looks at him curiously. The rational part of his mind is screaming at him that the clock is running out, that the time has come for him to _act_ , that the longer he waits, the harder this gets, but the empathic part of himself can’t quite let go. Still curious. Hannibal is _right_.

            “Forgiveness is fickle,” Hannibal continues uninterrupted, “or were you aware that you were lying to yourself?”

            Will feels the vein in his forehead tick. “Lying?”

            “Yes. To me, of course, but also to yourself.”

            Will wants to bite his head off. “Don’t talk like you have the moral high ground, Hannibal. You don’t.”

            “I’m aware of that,” Hannibal says, voice gone low and gravelly.

            “Even tonight, you’re lying. You— you were never going to let me go,” Will stutters through his teeth. “Never going to let me leave your side.”

            “No,” Hannibal admits, eyes dark and heavy. “I wasn’t.”

            The knife in Will’s hand shakes. Something about the steady tone of Hannibal’s voice _infuriates_ him. He clenches his teeth, bares them, pressing the blade into the flesh of Hannibal’s throat, so that a thin line of blood trickles down the alpha’s neck. “ _I’m. Not. Yours_.” He grits out, trying to meet Hannibal’s eyes.

            Hannibal cocks his head, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips. “Aren’t you?”

            Will can’t move, can’t push the little bit harder it would take to end Hannibal forever. His body simply won’t obey him, nose full of Hannibal’s scent. Instead, his insides pulse, and he feels slick in his boxers again, his thighs wanting to give out. Hannibal inhales, the grin on his face getting almost imperceptibly wider. And slowly, Hannibal brings his hand up to wrap around Will’s.

            “No. _No_.” _I don’t want this_.

            Slowly, finger by finger, Hannibal pulls the knife from Will’s grasp. Will just stands there, glaring at Hannibal’s chest, desperately trying to clench his fist, to keep the knife from slipping away, quaking with rage and fear.

            And then it’s too late; the knife is gone, sent clattering to the floor. Will looks up slowly, tilting his head so he can meet Hannibal’s eyes with his own. Hannibal brings his free hand up to cup Will’s jaw. Will falters. The instinct to bare his throat is almost overwhelming.

            “Don’t you?” Hannibal asks, somehow responding to the words Will had thought were only in his head. A little begging sound escapes the omega as he peers up at Hannibal, feeling once and for all the _largeness_ of the other man, the difference in their size. The alpha slowly brings his face in close, bearing down on Will with his heat and presence. His visage is all sharp lines, animalistic and fierce. Hannibal’s eyes flash.

            Will wants to carry his babies.

            All of a sudden Will feels two impossibly strong hands under his thighs, lifting him straight off the ground and crashing his mouth into Hannibal’s. Will moans, wrapping his legs around the alpha’s haunches and his arms around the alpha’s neck. He presses his body against his alpha’s chest, desperate for as much contact as possible. Hannibal’s mouth is hot as a furnace, and his sharp teeth graze Will’s lips. And meanwhile, his hands start kneading the very backs of Will’s thighs, sweeping his thumbs over the ample flesh of Will’s ass through his chinos.

            Will’s hips have a mind of their own, grinding Will’s erection into the firm flesh of Hannibal’s belly. He’s so hard it hurts, and the friction he feels through three layers of cloth is the best kind of pain he’s ever felt. Hannibal’s rough tongue slides against his own, a slow pulsing give and take, as strong as an ocean and as steady as a tide, and Will feels himself positively _drenched_ in slick.

            Then his world shifts and his back is slammed against the stone wall of the archway, Hannibal holding him up with his thighs, ravishing his mouth and he— he just sinks into it: the want. He wants more than he’s ever known was possible, so much that he’s shaking, but he’s beyond lying to himself that he can control it. He needs— he needs "H-annibal!"

            He realizes he’s been babbling aloud, while Hannibal suckles at his neck, the pressure warm and sweet and dangerous, and through the haze, Will feels himself arch into the touch, bury his face in the alpha’s neck and inhale as much of that scent as he can. “H-annibal, please!”

            A low, answering grumble sets Hannibal’s chest abuzz. Will shivers into it. 

            He's going to get what he’s asking for.

            Before long Will is dimly aware of two strong arms lifting him up, carrying him up a flight of stairs, then another, the colors on the wall blurring into a hazy red. His head lolls back, pulsing with blood. And he smiles, sweat dripping into the curl of his mouth; he’s being carried as he should be: like a bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp.


End file.
